


The thief

by Yesilian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shared fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesilian/pseuds/Yesilian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A PWP.</p>
<p>
  <i>Only this time it wasn't a text but a picture instead. John's curiosity piqued, he clicked to download it and had to look twice. It wasn't a body, as he'd expected. It wasn't even a crime scene or anything that would at first glance seem like some kind of evidence in some kind of crime. It was a tube of some sort. Well, not of some sort, on further investigation it turned out to be the lube he had bought earlier. The one he had put into his bedside table but also the one that was, as of this picture, definitely nowhere in his room but on what might just have been Sherlock's bedside table. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>And the seal was broken. The bastard had opened the tube. What would he need lube --</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Bloody hell," John said, couldn't help it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The thief

It started with an innocent tube of lube. John had returned from the shopping and left the bags on the kitchen table, empty and clean for once. He hadn't anticipated Sherlock to even spare them a glance and thus was mildly surprised when his flatmate picked that bag and that tube with unerring precision out of all the items in the kitchen.

"Lubricant? Really, John, isn't that a little presumptuous? You hardly know the woman." He shouldn't have felt caught, but he did. That was just something Sherlock excelled in, making people uncomfortable about sex.

"It's none of you business," he said, grabbing for the tube but Sherlock held it away from him, high over his head and out of John's reach.

"Oh, are we five now? Give it back, Sherlock!" he said with just a bit of anger. Of course he was ignored.

"I wonder why you even get your hopes up. History has shown us otherwise, yet here you are, preparing for the very unlikely event that that women will accompany you back to your bed, a woman, I might add, that you have met only once and then only for less than ten minutes. I ask myself what that says about you."

"It says that I like sex and that I may be desperate. Will you give it back now?"

"No." John sighed exasperated and let it be. If his flatmate chose to be standing in their kitchen with his arm held high clutching a tube of lube, then let him. He turned his attention back to packing away the groceries.

"Dating," Sherlock snorted behind his back. "It's just such a waste of time." He emphasized the last word.

"Of course you would say that." John replied in a bad mood.

"Why don't you enlighten me, then?" Sherlock settled against the kitchen counter and looked at him daringly. John spared a moment to think about his flatmate, analyse his mood. Not bad, not good, either. Just on this side of bored, just enough to pick an argument with John for entertainment, but not yet enough to start shooting the walls. All considered, it was one of his better days.

"I don't know. The flirting, the laughing, the casual touching. Maybe sex. It's all very nice," he tried to explain half-heartedly, still engrossed with the shopping. He could imagine better things than talking about this with Sherlock.

"We laugh." Ohoh, that was the direction he wanted to take this. Sherlock sometimes did this. Make John as uncomfortable as he possibly could, tried how far he could push him until he snapped. Except that John never snapped. What John usually did was run to his room and hide and feel defeated by his inability to show Sherlock his boundaries and then he would have to endure an especially smug flatmate for however long it would take him to find something else to distract him. Normally a couple of hours at most.

"Not now, Sherlock," he warned him off.

"What? We even touch. Sometimes."

"You poke me. Or throw something at me. Not the kind of touching I was talking about."

"If you believe those imbeciles at the Yard we flirt occasionally as well." John just stared at him. It was unbelievable, but that bastard was actually grinning at him. A god damn smug grin.

"Shut up." He made to grab the lube again but Sherlock saw it coming and held the tube up over his head one more time. John's look had turned to a glare.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked and never expected an answer, which was good, because he didn't get one. Instead Sherlock put the tube on the top shelf of the cupboard, smirking down at him arrogantly. John rolled his eyes. He really hadn't signed up for this when he moved in. He had thought he'd left those kinds of things behind him at uni.

He stepped close to the counter, got up on his tip toes (smug, freakishly tall bastard!) and reached up for the lube, barely reaching it with his fingertips. In a flash Sherlock was behind him, pressing up on him and reaching for the item as well. His left hand he placed on John's hip, pushing him closer to his own and his right was grabbing for the lube, pushing it into John's fingers.

"There you go," he breathed into John's ear, his lips brushing against his skin on the 'o' sound. Beneath him John couldn't suppress a shiver. Speedily he turned around, forcing Sherlock to take a step back but they still stood so close to each other that their chests touched with each inhale of breath. And they were both breathing heavily.

"What the hell was that?" John demanded. Sherlock shrugged.

"Casual touching." As if that was an explanation. He turned on the spot and left the kitchen, but not fast enough for John to not notice the big smirk on this face. Stupid bastard. It took him a while until he noticed he was still slumped against the counter, clutching the lube like a life line and breathing rather heavily.

~*~*~

The date was going okay. It turned out John didn't really like the woman, who was called Kate. They didn't have a lot in common, but they talked with relative ease. Also, she was quite pretty in the unassuming way John preferred. Still he knew that it wasn't going anywhere. Truth be told he was rather glad when he felt his phone vibrating with Sherlock's inevitable text telling him he's had quite enough fun on his own and summoning him home. Not that he ever worded it like this, but that was what it always came down to.

Only this time it wasn't a text but a picture instead. John's curiosity piqued, he clicked to download it and had to look twice. It wasn't a body, as he'd expected. It wasn't even a crime scene or anything that would at first glance seem like some kind of evidence in some kind of crime. It was a tube of some sort. Well, not of some sort, on further investigation it turned out to be the lube he had bought earlier. The one he had put into his bedside table but also the one that was, as of this picture, definitely nowhere in his room but on what might just have been Sherlock's bedside table.

And the seal was broken. The bastard had opened the tube. What would he need lube --

"Bloody hell," John said, couldn't help it.

"Pardon?" Kate asked. She looked at the phone in his hand and back up at his face which was drained of all colour. She didn't know it, but the all the blood prior in his head had dropped to assemble in a place much farther south. John looked up at her. It took him a second, but then he hastily gathered his things and stood up abruptly.

"Is everything alright?"

"Sorry. I'm so sorry. I have to go." He put some money on the table and all but ran to the exit. He chastised himself for it but then remembered that he really didn't like her all that much and probably wouldn't even meet her again accidentally. So it was okay.

Outside, he hailed a cab and counted the seconds until he would be home. He'd show him, oh he so would.

~*~*~

"Sherlock!" John wasn't even halfway through the door as he yelled for his crazy flatmate.

"Sherlock, you bastard, where are you?" They met in the hallway halfway between kitchen and Sherlock's bedroom. The other man was in his preferred lounge attire, pyjamas and dressing gown, which he was presently tying around his waist.

"John. What is it?" he asked innocently as if he didn't know exactly what had enraged his friend.

"Oh don't 'John' me." They stood facing each other, as per usual much too close to be socially acceptable, John fuming and Sherlock mildly curious. John growled.

"Where do you want it?" he asked in a very low tone that was rather threatening.

"Want what?" Sherlock asked taken aback. He had tried to picture the outcome of this, but in none of the nineteen possible scenarios had he anticipated that particular question. He didn't know where John was going with it and wasn't that just exciting? Fascinating, how John could always surprise him with his unpredictability.

"Well, you sending me that picture, I figured you were telling me that you'd prepared yourself for me to bend you over and fuck you, as that was what I had intended the lube for. So. Where. Do. You. Want. It?" He was risking it all here, John was well aware. But it was almost already worth it just seeing Sherlock speechless for even the tiniest moment, surprise written all over his usually emotionless face. But of course that wouldn't last long.

"Front door," he coughed. "Against." And then he hurried away, not in his normal elegant stride and it was all he could do not to run. It was John's time to smirk as he followed slowly. It seemed that was one fantasy they both shared.

When he caught up with him, Sherlock stood facing the door, bracing himself on his fore arms and bent over in the knees. It was utterly bizarre. John couldn't believe it. Here stood Sherlock Holmes, genius, offering himself to be fucked by his perfectly ordinary flatmate and he was actually going to do it. Nervousness amassed in his stomach and he had to force himself to proceed lest he lost his nerves. Truth be told, he hadn't really expected Sherlock to want this. He thought the other man was just teasing him and teased right back. Sure, the hard cock in his trousers wouldn't let him lie and say he wasn't really up to it, but it was still strange. He needed to make sure. For all their fighting this was the most important relationship in his life and he couldn't sacrifice it for something as inconsequential as fucking.

"You sure you want this?" he asked softly as he lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, giving the man the opportunity to back out and have it all go back to before.

"Don't be daft. I never do things I don't want to," he huffed in response. So, nothing'd changed. Still the same insufferable git.

"Right."

And then he started. Sherlock was still fully dressed, as was John. John's hand brushed down from where it lay on Sherlock's shoulder to his waist and pushed the fabric of his dressing gown to the side. He brought his other hand up and grabbed the waistband of his pyjama bottoms to pull them downwards. Sherlock didn't wear any pants, which John had expected, as he knew his flatmate almost never wore them anyways, no matter how crisp his outer clothing usually was. He suspected it had something to do with not wanting to do the washing and as he rarely wore underwear he rarely had to wash it.

He pulled the garment down to his mid thighs and left it there. The view was brilliant. Sherlock's arse, so plush and perfectly round, pushed out to him invitingly, his clothing still almost intact, the picture of wanton, impatient lust right in front of him. John got down to his knees behind him and bit at the flesh, couldn't deny himself the pleasure of feeling him up with his teeth, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave marks. Sherlock gave a little start and jumped almost imperceptibly.

"God," he moaned and John smiled against his buttock. He brought his hands up again to grab at the globes, massaging them none too gently while he still gnawed away contentedly as Sherlock began to seriously squirm under his ministration.

"John, please," he whispered through clenched teeth and John suddenly knew what his mission was for the night: Make Sherlock scream. He could tell the man was doing all he could not to lose control and that just wouldn't do. After all, he had asked for this, hadn't he? So he would get it. That decision was just enough to make him focus that bit more or else he wouldn't have been able to keep himself from just taking Sherlock then and there.

One of this fingers felt for Sherlock's entrance. He was surprised to find it open and sticky with lube, but then he remembered that that had been the whole purpose, Sherlock opening himself up for John.

"Oh, you," John said against Sherlock's flesh and made him shiver under his breath. He let his finger slip into the hole tentatively to see how far he could go. Sherlock went rigid against him. He shoved another finger inside next to the first one and both slipped in easily. He gave a couple of cautious thrusts and then tried a third one at which point he felt some resistance.

"Come on, John, I'm ready," Sherlock panted impatiently above him. "Just do it already." John looked up at him but only saw the back of his head. Sherlock hadn't moved his upper body at all, was still braced against the door with his forehead against his arms and eyes shut tightly.

"No, where's the lube?" John asked. He wanted this, but not when it meant hurting Sherlock. He was still a doctor and he had seen what poor preparation could do. He just hoped he wouldn't need to get up to fetch the lube. He wasn't sure he could leave the sexy bastard here, waiting, anticipating. Shivering for his touch. Aching for his touch. Arching his back for him.

He was lucky, Sherlock's hand flew to the pocket in his dressing gown and within a second held out the lube for John blindly. The moment John took it he brought his arm back up against the door, it would seem he needed all the support he could get to stay up.

John poured a generous amount of lube onto his fingers and brought them back up against Sherlock's crack. He smeared the liquid around the hole, dipping in every now and then and making the man bob in rhythm with his penetrations. It he hadn't been so aroused himself John might have found it endearing. After a while he had worked three fingers in comfortably and was starting on the forth.

"Oh for God's sake, John, why is this taking you so long?" Sherlock nearly screamed. Almost there. Just a little more volume and John would have accomplished his mission. For a genius it was astonishing that Sherlock didn't know better than to insult the man at whose mercy he was. But John decided to let it slip. Unfazed he continued in his preparations until at last he was satisfied with the stretching he had achieved. Unceremoniously he pulled his fingers free and Sherlock gasped aloud at the loss and the sudden feeling of emptiness. It wouldn't last long.

Behind him, John got to his feet and unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. At the sound of if Sherlock let out an ungraceful sigh of anticipation and relief and John would have almost chuckled. He pushed his pants down just enough to free his cock, got some more lube and started to lube himself up. Finally, finally, he grabbed Sherlock's right hip none too gently, pulled and pushed closer and said, "Here goes," before Sherlock could feel the blunt head of that beautiful cock against his arsehole. He hadn't seen it, but it was beautiful. He had so longed for it.

John gave a shove and the head bullied its way inside, past the tight ring of muscle and deeper into the delicious heat that was Sherlock. All those long last minutes his attention had been on preparing Sherlock, on making this great for Sherlock, that he had completely forgotten what lay ahead for himself and he delighted in the feeling. He groaned loudly as he pushed further still until he was all in and then he held it there, giving both of them a moment to get used to the feeling.

Sherlock was so tight around him, it hurt in a good way. He wouldn't last long, he knew that for sure. He settled on a rhythm that was neither so fast it would end it all in under a minute nor so slow for them both to grow impatient. His free, left hand reached around Sherlock's body to reach for Sherlock's cock. He gave a very undignified sound, almost like a sob, when he touched it. Sherlock was too far gone to care for himself and was glad when John took over that task as well. As good as it felt, and it felt great, the penetration wasn't enough to give him release. But there was just no way he was able to tear himself from the door for fear of falling down. The door was his anchor and he couldn't let go of it.

He was panting heavily now and growing ever more louder as John began to stroke him in earnest in the same rhythm his cock was pistoning in and out of his arse. By now John had lost all coherent thought and was murmuring nonsense against Sherlock's back. It didn't matter what he said as neither one was paying any attention to anything except the feeling of and around John's cock in Sherlock's tight hole or his hand on the other man's shaft.

Slowly he picked up speed and it was finally too much for Sherlock who came all over John's hand. His body shuttered against the door and his arse clenched around John so tightly it was all he could do not to scream as he spent himself in that hot, narrow cave in long spurts. His body relaxed and they fell to the floor as his support for Sherlock gave out and the larger man tumbled down. They landed on their sides, uninjured, thankfully and unfazed, curling down next to each other, spooning with John still buried deep within Sherlock.

It took them some minutes to slow their breathing down. John disentangled himself and both groaned disappointed when his cock slipped out of Sherlock. It made them giggle, this twin sound of frustration. John let his forehead rest against Sherlock's shoulder blades.

"It's getting cold," he said after some more minutes.

"Mhm," Sherlock hummed and didn't move.

"It's also rather dirty down here." But John didn't move to get up either. Sherlock gave one of his trademark snorts.

"That's because you haven't hoovered in over a week," je explained matter-of-factly and just a bit accusingly.

"If it bothers you so much, you can just pick up the hoover yourself, you know. Big genius like you, shouldn't take you too long to figure out how it works," John answered good-naturedly. Maybe it was the sex, but he couldn't bring himself to be angry at his lazy-arse flatmate right now. Not when he felt so placid in his arms with his naked backside pressed against his equally naked cock, in John's arms on the dirty floor of their home. On further contemplation, it definitively was the sex.

"I know how it works. I just choose to not do it." It felt good to be bickering. Sex ... changed everything. But lying here, content and happy, bickering like always, it felt reassuring. But he had to get up. The floor really wasn't comfortable for his old bones.

John sat up and rearranged his clothing. Next to him Sherlock grunted and did the same. John cast a last glance at that lovely arse, now fast leaking lube and come and missed it already the moment it was once more wrapped in fabric. He felt sorry that he didn't get a good look at Sherlock's cock. He could feel it, yes, but then he was so preoccupied with fucking the man that he didn't get a chance to create a good mental image. He had to ask. He didn't want to, but he had to.

"So ... how is this going on from here?" Sherlock looked at him, the first time since he's come home and screamed for him what felt hours ago, and John could read uncertainty in his eyes. It felt so wrong. Sherlock and uncertainty shouldn't be concepts that were to be associated. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know," he confessed. John felt a wave of sympathy flood through him.

"I don't want to lose what we have. And I feel that we would risk that if we ... I don't know, started dating." He looked at Sherlock, whose head was still bowed to the ground, but who looked up at him from under his lashes. He looked so young. "But that was really nice, what we did there."

"Isn't there a way that we could keep doing this," Sherlock made a gesture that included the both of them, the door and the ground they currently sat on, "and still be friends?" he asked and again his voice sounded so small it almost broke John's heart. He wanted to hug the man and tell him it was all going to be fine, and screw it, why couldn't he? And so he did. He embraced Sherlock and pulled him close to his chest, and it was strange how not-sexual that felt.

"Of course we can. If that's what you want."

"Is it what you want?" he was asked in return and John thought about it for a while. Friends with benefits with Sherlock? Not really. But a relationship with Sherlock? Also, not really. He loved the man, he never wanted to spend a day without the man, but he didn't feel up to the task of actually be with that man. Because a task it would be. It was already too complicated for his own comfort. But that was what it was going to boil down to, wasn't it? And he couldn't for the love of it bring himself to feel afraid.

Maybe if he saw it as a warm-up phase, that would do. Being with Sherlock without actually being with Sherlock. With all the benefits, namely mind-blowing sex, without more drawbacks that he was already used to. Yes, he could see that.

"Yes, I'd very much like that." He said at last and smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back, a very small, very honest and real smile, and it was settled then.

 


End file.
